


Il Canzoniere

by coffeeandcas



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Long after the clifftop fall, Will finds Hannibal in France and they attempt to embark on a new life together. But while the threat of Jack and the FBI has faded into obscurity, a new monster rears its head and threatens to come between them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back with a new dark fic? Hannibal, Will, a brand new life in Europe, and a little bit of murder. If you're looking for pure fluff and romance, you may be lost.
> 
> Enjoy!

By the time Will Graham reaches the address he'd scrawled haphazardly on a dog-eared Post-It, he's so exhausted that his legs can barely keep him upright any more.

He's not carrying much, just one battered leather hold-all, but the walk from the train station had taken longer than he'd bargained for and the searing heat of the Provençal sun has burned his skin and made him feel parched and fatigued. His t-shirt sticks unpleasantly to every inch of his skin and he'd forgotten to pack sunglasses, his head now aching from squinting into the brightness. His sneakers have rubbed a raw blister into the heel of his foot and he doesn't feel half as young as he thought he was. 

Up ahead, the village looms out of the mountainside. Actually, looms isn't the correct word for somewhere so stunningly pretty. Even Will, who now feels consumed by a bleak emptiness that he knows only one man can cure, can admit that it's pretty. But the walk up the hillside road has exhausted him both physically and mentally and all he wants is to crash into Hannibal’s arms and stay there for the best part of eternity.

A stab of fear steals his breath for a moment as the possibility that Hannibal might not be there rears its ugly head again. It had plagued him throughout his plane journey, forcing him from sleep every time he tried. It had clawed at his chest as he'd made his way through the airport, wandering this way and that in an attempt to find out which bus he should take, if any. He'd let it distract him on the journey so much that he'd got off at the wrong stop and had been too hot and bothered to wait for the next one. So a three-mile hike had seemed the most sensible choice at the time. He just hadn't banked on so much of it being uphill.

One cobbled street blends into another, too narrow for any cars to pass down. It's comforting, the feeling of almost going back into time by a century. There are archways drenched with flowers and he passes under them in a daze. Window boxes erupt with coloured blooms, vines and creepers grow up and over doorways, and the elderly sit out on their front porches with walking sticks, greeting him with mumbled words and a smile. At first, his heart pounds with every word directed at him. Do they know him? Recognise his face? Has Jack’s international manhunt extended this far into the French countryside? He's been officially missing for not yet seventy-two hours, but he knows Jack will have been searching for him for most of those. Within the United States borders, and outside them. And, as he's learned to his cost once before, the reach of Jack Crawford can extend a long, long way. He only hopes Hannibal has chosen somewhere to settle beyond those fingertips. And that his own pilgrimage here doesn't draw the watchful eye of the man they both now seek to evade.

He checks the Post-It for the hundredth time. Takes a left. Then, a few steps later, a right. Down an incline, up another. Peers at some peonies nestled in a flowerpot, looks up with shaded eyes at the painted shutters and terracotta roof tiles. The village is old. He'd read that it dates back to the sixteenth century and now, walking its quiet, humble streets, he can sense the history in every brick, every cracked tile, every ridged stone beneath his feet. The coloured road signs feel out of place. The electric cables look like they should be removed with urgency. Unlike Baltimore, nobody seems to walk around with cell phones in their hands. It's as though the village is contained within a calm, serene little world of its own.

He passes a creperie. A supermarket through whose window he can see refrigerated bottles of cold water. A shop selling fresh fruit and colourful vegetables, and he eyes up a pile of cherries sitting glistening in the afternoon sun. No. He can't stop for snacks, no matter how vehemently his body is crying out for sustenance. He needs to find his destination.

He needs to find Hannibal.

Another dusty street, then another, and then… He looks at the address on the Post-It. Looks up at the street sign pinned to the stone above his head. His heart pounds so loudly it must be audible to the old man sitting nearby on his stoop, chewing tobacco and humming a tune to himself. Trepidatious, he walks down it, looking to the narrow, low doors for the numbers. But when he finally sees it, he doesn't need to check that it's the correct address at all. He just knows.

There's a book sitting closed on the little wrought-iron table beside the open door, a bookmark placed carefully at a chosen point halfway through. An empty glass stands beside it, and Will’s mouth feels drier than ever. The book. He knows that book. He's handled that book. A copy of it sat in Hannibal’s opulent study back in Baltimore, leather-bound and ancient. This copy isn't much different, though the cover is blue instead of red. Its title is written in gold filigree in French: _Le Masque de Santé Mentale._ The Mask of Sanity. An apt text for Hannibal to be reading, especially now. Will reaches for the book, intending just to brush the cover with his fingers, but then pulls back and looks around, worried that he's attracting attention to himself.

His concern is unfounded. The narrow cobbled street is empty aside from the elderly man, and the buildings are so close together that for him to be overlooked one would have to lean out of the upstairs windows to get a good look at him. Nobody is doing such a thing. Nobody is noticing him at all, and after months of living under Jack’s surveillance, it's a strange sensation not to be watched.

He takes a deep breath and moves to the open door, peering inside. There's a long hallway with blue and white tiles on the floor, a narrow staircase curling up to the right. A table with orchids sits close to his elbow. Then, in between the two, a door through which he can see the edge of a kitchen cabinet and a bundle of fresh herbs waiting for the inevitable knife.

He steps forward, breath frozen in his lungs. The house is warm, stiflingly so. No air conditioning, nothing so modern and offensive would ever be seen in Hannibal’s new home. The summer breeze ghosts at his ankles, but it's not enough to cool him. A bead of sweat tracks down his spine. Another step, into the kitchen doorway. Then he sees him.

Hannibal is standing with his back to Will, wearing fitted linen trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He's chopping fresh strawberries into a pitcher of ice water, droplets of condensation running down the glass to pool on the marble counter. Will should dive for it, drink the entire thing in one mouthful then beg for more, so desperate is his thirst. But his entire world has narrowed down to the line of Hannibal’s shoulders, the curve of his spine through his shirt, the way his pale hair sits at the nape of his neck. The tanned hands wielding the knife so effortlessly. The thickness of his thighs in the linen pants. The danger coiled in every muscle.

Hannibal pauses in his endeavour for just a heartbeat, before turning to him with an expectant, if not warmly surprised, smile curving his lips. His eyes sparkle in the light from the window. Will wonders for a moment if he's real, or if this is one long hallucination spun up from the mind of a lonely and mentally unstable man. Hannibal hasn't changed beyond a slightly darker tan. The lines at his eyes are the same, the pale hair tucked behind one ear. The way he looks at Will as though he's a newly discovered DaVinci piece: as though he's some beloved, coveted artwork in his own right.

The air seems warmer somehow.

“My darling.”

Hannibal’s voice is as unchanged as his face, low and rich and perfect, and Will steps forward as though drawn by an invisible wire. Hannibal looks as though he wants to speak again, but there's nothing he can say that could fill this moment with as much warmth, relief, heartache and desperation that instantly clouds the air around them.

Then Will’s bag is falling from his shoulder to the floor, his back is pressed to the countertop, arms are coming to wrap around his waist, the small of his back, and they're kissing. Kissing deeply, like two lovers torn apart by war and reunited after a long absence. Which, in effect, is exactly what they are.

Hannibal tastes sweet, of sugar syrup and berries, and Will presses into him with a long-dormant hunger, panting, whining low in his throat, twisting his fingers into Hannibal’s shirt and trying to press himself closer. He wants to be underneath Hannibal’s skin, inside him, and even then it wouldn't be enough. His desperation is palpable and Hannibal kisses him with a raw fervour of his own, fingers tightening in Will’s shirt, mouth firm on his, chest pressed against his, and Will is left in no doubt that not an ounce of Hannibal’s power has left him in the time they've been apart. The man could just as easily throw him down onto the kitchen table and rip his clothes off as he could take him down to the tiled floor and rip out his throat with teeth and claws. Will shivers. It feels good to be home.

He makes a small, unhappy noise in his throat when Hannibal pulls back. Warm hands cup his jaw, move up to push his sweat-damp hair back out of his face, then they're kissing again. It goes on forever. He melts against Hannibal, who holds him tightly, and the last few years seem to dissolve into nothing between them.

Later, they eat figs and warm goat’s cheese on honeyed bread out on the little balcony that leads off their bedroom and drink copious amounts of Côte de Provence. Will is pleasantly mellow after it all, sleepy and happy and watching Hannibal constantly. It's been so long, too damn long. He thought he might never see him again, that he'd reach the address he'd committed to memory the moment he'd read it and the little stone house would be barren and cold. But instead, he's been met with beautiful warmth in so many ways that he never could have contemplated.

Hannibal stands and gathers their wine glasses in one hand, pauses behind Will and they both sit and stare out across the green expanse of Provence together. The cottage is high up on the top of the hill, at the apex of the village, and their bedroom and balcony sit facing the hillsides, into which clusters of small, pale buildings are nestled. It's quiet, so quiet Will should be battling with his own thoughts by now, but his mind is at peace. It's a foreign concept for him. One he hopes will become permanent if he stays here with Hannibal.

If. There is no if. The fluency of possibility cemented itself into certainty the moment their lips met. Will is going nowhere; at least not by his own design.

“At night you can hear the bullfrogs,” Hannibal says quietly from behind him. There's the clink of glassware being set down on a stone sill, then gentle fingers are sinking into his curls, a thumb rubbing at his temple. He leans back into the caress, eyes threatening to fall closed. “They are a long way away, hidden in the woodland, and we shall never see them. Yet their call is loud enough to reach us on the night air.”

“They're hiding from us,” Will murmurs, inclining his head so that Hannibal’s thumb can stroke his cheek. “They think we might hunt them if we could see them.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they simply prefer the anonymity that darkness provides.”

 _Like you,_ Will wants to say, but that wouldn't be accurate. The frogs cloak themselves in nighttime so their predators will struggle to find them. Hannibal is darkness itself.

Much later, they make love as the sun goes down over the mountains and turns Will’s pale skin a beautiful golden hue as the rays creep in from behind the shutters. Hannibal is gentle and commanding, Will relaxed and pliant beneath him, on his stomach, his whole body rocking with the force of Hannibal’s thrusts. Fingers will leave bruises on his hips. Teeth will leave marks on his shoulder. He’ll spend the night slick and open, Hannibal’s release inside him and dripping out to coat his thighs as he shifts in his sleep. He groans into the sheets at a particularly deep thrust.

“I love you, my beautiful little wolf.” Hannibal murmurs into his ear. “I've missed you, body and soul.”

“Me too,” he manages, entire body alight with pleasure. “God, Hannibal, deeper, please.”

“You're close,” A kiss to the nape of his neck accompanies the observation. “Can you come like this?”

‘Like this’ means only from the stimulation of Hannibal’s thick cock moving inside him and nothing else at all. His own aching shaft is pressed into the sheets, dripping, and he's held so firmly still that he can't rock his hips to generate any friction whatsoever. But he doesn't need to. Not when Hannibal fills him so completely, stretches him open, pushes over his prostate with each deep thrust, holds still inside him so Will’s body can clench helplessly around the intrusion and push him closer to that edge.

“Yes. Yes, _yes,_ I…”

Whatever else he was going to say is lost as Hannibal’s hands move from his hips to his wrists, pinning them to the bed, and the action presses Hannibal’s body closer, pushes his cock deeper, causes Will to shudder and moan helplessly as his climax rears up within him. Another hard, deep thrust and Hannibal’s teeth at his shoulder and that's it, he's lost to the pleasure of it all, and his vision sparkles as his orgasm overwhelms him.

When he comes back to himself, his throat is raw so he must have cried out pretty loudly. He shifts languidly, groans as Hannibal grips his hips once more and angles them so he can fuck in deeper, harder, pace quickening, until he presses in deep and stills, coming inside Will with a harsh exhale, forehead pressed to Will’s shoulder-blade. Lying prone beneath him, Will imagines his face twisted in pleasure, his perfect hair falling in damp strands into his eyes, his own lip between his teeth to prevent any sound from escaping. Hannibal always climaxes in near silence. A low gasp has been Will’s only reward to date.

They lie twisted together in the waning evening, sweaty and exhausted and content, Will’s head pillowed on Hannibal’s stomach. The scent of sex is strong between them, rich and intense between Hannibal’s legs, and if Will had any strength at all he would lean down and nuzzle there, mouth at Hannibal’s balls, lick his shaft, suckle at the soft head, breathe him in, stay there for a while. But he can't move, and the feeling of slender fingers stroking through his curls is lulling him towards sleep. They should shower, but they won't. Neither will break the embrace long enough to even suggest such a thing. He feels like he's dreaming, has done since he got here and Hannibal drew him into his arms, and soon he's sleeping soundly, held in the grasp of his monster.

And later still, Will wakes and just lies there amid the sheets, watching Hannibal sleep, and wondering if any of this is real at all. In his experience, nothing that feels this perfect ever lasts.

Outside, a long way away, the frogs are waking up.

 

*

 

The next morning, breakfast is a sweet affair with croissants and cappuccinos and eclairs from the patisserie across the road. Hannibal goes and returns before Will is even properly awake and aware of where he now is. The sun-drenched bedroom with the pale blue shutters still closed, windows pulled open into the room to allow the breeze entry. The bookcase against the wall with copies of all Hannibal’s favourites in a variety of languages: Plato, Socrates and Aristotle jostle for space between Kant and Hume. The handmade glass vases in garish colours that Will can hardly stand the sight of, that go against everything he's ever learned of Hannibal’s taste in interior decor. He soon learns that the vases are handmade, crafted in a small shop a few streets down, and they take on a new beauty when he learns that.

They haven't talked much yet, and they eat in companionable silence, trading secret smiles and sideways looks. There's so much to say, so much they need to talk about and get out into the open air, but it's all too big right now. Hannibal reaches for his hand and holds it, and they both look down at their linked fingers and the shaft of sunlight that casts rectangular prisms across their skin. They'll talk. Will knows they will. But they've been reunited less than twenty-four hours and it seems a shame to break this calm, perfect haze with talk of the past and of the future when they can just enjoy each other instead. He's waited too long for this. He doesn't want to rush things now.

The scar on Will’s cheek burns sometimes. Aches. It wakes him in the night on occasion, and on very rare occurrences it draws him from his bed to the bathroom, to gaze at himself in the mirror. That happened last night. Hannibal has appeared in the doorway, naked, solid muscle and soft eyes, moving behind Will to hold him and caress the scar with his thumb. The skin is pale and smooth, twisted, and the hair of his beard doesn't grow there any more.

“It suits you,” he had said, and a curl of pride had unfurled itself within Will’s chest at the praise. Hannibal was alluding not only to the scar, but to Will’s actions both before and after it was given to him. Hannibal was proud of him then, and remains proud of him now, even though so much time has passed.

Two years is a long time. And now, back in the security of Hannibal’s embrace, his home, his dominance and adoration, Will has no idea how he managed to survive at all. Two years since their last kiss, their last exchanged words, since he last saw Hannibal look at him with such raw passion that it made his mouth run dry. Two years since Hannibal disappeared from his world to start a new one entirely on his own, and left Will to tread water and try to explain the hell out of the Red Dragon’s death.

But that time has now dwindled to mere moments between them, as though Will hasn’t spent his nights lying awake and his days conscious but not quite lucid, returning to his lecture halls but being removed from the halls of the FBI forever. As though Hannibal hasn't carved a life for himself in the French Riviera, lying dormant in wait of his mate whom he knew, one day, would come.

They have new names, new identities. Hannibal has even had a passport made for Will, and he'd accepted it with awe. His own face stared back at him, open and calm, plainer without the dark frames of his glasses. It lists his nationality as French-Canadian, his date of birth a few years prior to his own, and his name he tests out audibly until he gets it right. Hannibal’s fingers drew circles on his shoulder as he did so, poised behind Will at the breakfast table like a hawk, scrutinising his reactions and correcting poor pronunciation.

“You must learn the language,” Hannibal says and Will makes a stifled sound in the back of his throat, scoffing. He doesn't need to look at Hannibal’s face to know precisely which expression of offence is crossing it.

“You make it sound easy.”

“You know some French. You grew up in New Orleans, did you not?”

“My house was hardly a cultural hub. If my father and I exchanged ten words a day in English I'd consider it a victory.”

“Still. I'm certain you'll pick it up with some tutoring. You underestimate your abilities, my dear.”

Will doesn't respond to that. Instead, he imagines his days spent on their balcony, practising his verbs and tenses with Hannibal, skin browning in the summer sun, the taste of sweet berries on his lips. One day, maybe even a dog lying in the shade at his feet.

He smiles.

“Will you teach me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much shorter chapter than my usual, but it was a conscious decision. Enjoy...

A few streets away, in a top-floor apartment that was probably the height of luxury in the 1600s, a young man sits on his balcony, writing. He has his iPad next to him, playing soft classical notes, but he writes with an old-fashioned fountain pen, blue ink onto cream paper. It’s a novel - or the beginnings of one, at least. On the rickety wrought-iron table beside him lie his notes, pages and pages of them. Drawings, scribbled words and phrases, more complex descriptors. It's a lot of work, months worth. Maybe even years.

And at the top of the manuscript, two words are written in neat cursive then underlined twice. A name, the name of the man his work is inspired by. A European name, elegant and refined, lovely to speak aloud, the syllables sliding beautifully off the tongue. It suits him. A man of poise, of grace, of nobility once upon a time. A hunted man. A man in love with another, someone who denied him, defied him, changed him in ways he cannot return from. A man who is currently lying entwined in the arms of that other man, not too far away.

Hannibal Lecter, as he was once known. The pen scratches across the parchment as he writes, feverish with the need to get the words out quickly in case they should slip away from him and be lost forever. This isn't his first novel. Some have been published to local, national, and international critique. Some remain unfinished in piles around the apartment. Some live in his own head. And some are coming to life before his eyes. Everything he writes has a basis in fact, crafted from his own experience and brought to life before the avid eyes of the reader.

This work, his masterpiece, is no different.

A fly drifts lazily into his field of vision and he swipes at it, sweat borne of irritation combined with the intense heat dripping down his temple. He needs a drink. Iced tea. The pen is dropped carelessly and droplets of ink splatter the paper, blurring a word here and there. No matter. It's only a draft, after all. The full story is yet to be told. Inside, he stands in front of the open refrigerator door for a moment, cooling down. His forearms are bronzed from the sun, reddening slightly today and he knows he's been sitting out there for too long, lost entirely in his work. He wonders what time it is, and what they're doing now, those few streets away. Perhaps they've woken, perhaps they're lying tangled in the sheets, feeding each other strawberries. Perhaps they're taking a walk through the village together. He leans over to look down from his balcony, curious, but the little cobbled street remains empty in the heat of the afternoon. He returns to simply imagining them together, managing to press down the errant spark of jealousy before it escapes. Thinking of the two of them is fine, because it may not be true. What he can't see won't hurt him.

He puts the jug away into the fridge and takes a long drink from his glass. It's later than he thought and he's forgotten to have lunch again. Later he might wander down to the little restaurant on the corner, eating alone as always, content to make small-talk with the waitress and observe the village as it comes to life in the evenings. There's a musician who always plays on one corner, a Spanish guitar. It's a pretty tune, always the same one. It's familiar, routine, and he likes it. He wonders if the subject of his desire likes it as much as he does.

Back outside, and he's picking up some pages that have skittered off the table in the light breeze. He sits back down at his little table and reads some of his own work back. The words ignite a thrill inside his chest and he immediately pins the paper to the table with his pen nib, scribbling more and more as the words flow.

He pauses, scratches out a word here, adds a comma there. Pushes his dark hair out of his eyes and frowns against the sunlight. He's developing a line between his eyebrows from scowling down at his paper and from his aversion to sunglasses. He's handsome by anyone's standards, but his own beauty escapes him due to disinterest in himself and preoccupation with those around him. He's intelligent and well-spoken, but keeps to certain circles and even then enjoys passing the time on the edges of them. He's wary of newcomers, dislikes change unless it's brought about by himself. Uprooting his entire life and moving to a small, quaint little village on the French coastline had been a big enough change, and he'd taken a while to settle here. Then he arrived and threw the otherwise stable world around him into freefall.

He can taste the sweet flavour of obsession on his tongue, recognises it for what it is and embraces it like an old friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Will has a gap in his memory. It's not a large gap, and it doesn't worry him the way it might once have done, but it's one he's never quite managed to fill even though his doctors told him he might remember given time. Well, time has passed and he still can't dredge up the memories of what happened after he and Hannibal went over the cliff together.

There's the house, all lit up from the inside. A ship in the night, reminiscent of his own. There's the bedroom, the floor where his clothes were strewn as Hannibal undressed him. They'd had to be quick, aware that Francis Dolarhyde could materialise out of the darkness at any moment. They'd used a condom for ease of cleanup, disposed of it carelessly. No doubt forensics had found it later. He doesn't care. In his moments of dark humour, he hopes Zeller was the one to find it. At the time, neither of them had expected to survive. There's the clifftop fight, blood in his mouth, Hannibal’s hand on his own stomach. Dirt and stones beneath the palms of his hands. Hannibal’s teeth, black in the moonlight as Francis’ life bled from him. There's Hannibal, and there's him. There's the bright, cleansing peace of epiphany.

Then, nothing.

Then lights and doctors and Jack and fake flowers in gaudy vases and bad food and IV wires and a headache that refused to quit. More Jack. Some shouting. Zeller, who wouldn't come too close. Price, far too close. A gift, delivered by someone who looked frighteningly like Abigail through Will’s haze of painkillers and antiemetics. Flashbacks to the time Hannibal gutted him and left him to die, and nightmares that forced the doctors to sedate him. The book with the Post-It. Hannibal’s new address, and only then did Will realise how much time he'd lost to his substantial injuries. His collarbone still plagues him now, off and on.

The hospital stay had been extensive, uncomfortable, and expensive. They'd done multiple MRI and CT scans to try and work out why he wasn't waking up for such a long time, and those alone had surpassed his insurance cap. In the end, they'd not come up with any concrete answer and Will had been at a loss himself. But now, he thinks he knows why. Even in his unconscious, battered state, with bones broken and organs haemorrhaging, he'd felt the loss of Hannibal like the loss of his own limb. The man’s absence in his immediate surroundings was palpable even through the haze of drugs and his own mind going deliberately offline for a while without his consent. He theorises now that he'd thought Hannibal dead, and that the idea of waking up to a world that he would have to face alone was too terrifying a possibility. So his mind had opted for oblivion instead, and the sheer force of will of his doctors had brought him back from the edge. At times, he's resented that. Now, he's thankful.

He turns over in Hannibal’s arms, looks past him and through the open window, into the night. It's quiet now, the frogs and cicadas have had their final say. He's sweaty and hot, but still presses closer. It must be three, maybe four in the morning. He hasn't slept much.

He doesn't know yet how Hannibal escaped. How bad his injuries were, how he managed to leave the state under the watchful eye of every police force in the area. Hell, in the country.Jack was taking no chances back then. He’d only stopped at putting an ankle tag on Will because it wasn't legal and no judge within a hundred mile radius would permit it.

Will has known a lot of men over the years, a lot of angry, vengeful men who would stop at nothing to reach their goals. Jack Crawford was the silent embodiment of all those men combined. After Will was discharged, Jack didn't shout at him once. Instead, he watched him in cold, calculated silence, and that was worse in its own way. Will is not a man who appreciates being under anyone's microscope. Even Hannibal Lecter only got away with it for so long before… Will shifts on the older man’s chest, his own thoughts causing him disquiet. Before he became just like the man he once wanted to see dead. Only… Will is worse. For Hannibal, the desire to take a human life between his palms, crush it to dust and consume the ashes is latent, created in childhood, something he has cultivated over the years like a work of art. For Will, the desire to take a life is entirely different. Hannibal finds beauty in death. Justice in retribution. The balance of life restored.

Will saw the beauty in murder.

Outside, the sky is paling. The stars are still sprinkled across the horizon but fading now as the dawn approaches. Dawn in the village is Will’s favourite time of day. The quiet and still mornings bring him a sense of peace he hasn't felt since he stood in Hannibal’s arms on the cliff edge. The solitude is soothing - Hannibal usually lets him alone in the mornings, or carries on sleeping while Will wraps himself in a blanket on the balcony and enjoys the sun slowly warming his skin. Eventually, Hannibal will bring him breakfast and cold brewed artisanal coffee. But only when Will’s ready for it, ready to face the day. To face the man he's become and the life Hannibal has created for them.

But this morning, his desire to get up and greet the sunrise passes him by, and he stays curled beneath the soft sheets, listening to the beat of Hannibal’s heart. He could lie like this for a long time, thinking and remembering and envisioning the years they have ahead of them. Summers spent just here, in Provence, amid wine and bread and flowers and sweetly hot evenings in their little village from the past. The leaves turning golden on the shores of the Italian lakes, sipping coffee and walking down the anonymous streets of Milan, or the rising waters of Venice beneath their feet. And winters in Eastern Europe where the cold makes Baltimore look tropical. His breath tasting frozen on his lips. Minsk. Geneva. Krakow. Homely, rich food and the bite of expensive vodka. weather so cold they walk arm-in-arm to stay warm.

Mountains. Deep, beckoning forests.

Dark memories and darker nights.

Lithuania.

Outside, the cry of a bird draws him back to the present and to the warmth of their bedroom. He shifts just a little, noticing the lightened sky and the time he's lost to his fantasies. Minutes, surely. Hours, not this time.

“Hannibal?” He murmurs, quiet but determined. The older man doesn't stir, doesn't move a muscle, but somehow Will knows he's woken, at least in part. “Did you miss me?”

He isn't asking from a plaintive place of vulnerability. He doesn't crave that sort of affection from Hannibal Lecter. What he does crave is the abolition of his loneliness, of feeling like the only man in the world who feels the way he does, thinks the way he does, _understands_ the things he does. And the only other person in existence who can and does fulfil all of those things is asleep beneath him. He pushes his nose into Hannibal’s neck and inhales. His cologne lingers from the night before, rich and familiar. He's momentarily back in Chandler Square, Hannibal tying a woollen scarf around his neck and straightening his coat collar. He blinks, and the memory fades.

“Beyond reason, my dear,” comes Hannibal’s lazy response, his hand drifting from Will’s shoulder up to his hair, fingertips trailing along his skin and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “I thought of you every day.”

“In what ways?” Will persists, pressing for… he doesn't know what. More. Just more. “In what ways did you think of me?”

“Many ways. Some you'd like, some you'd welcome, and some…” Hannibal turns his head to press a kiss to Will’s forehead. “Some you may not wish to hear.”

“You thought of killing me.” Hannibal’s chest beneath his cheek is just as firm and grounding as it was that night on the cliff edge. “How?”

“In a way that you would find poetic, no doubt.” Fingers comb through his curls, rub circles into the back of his neck.

“Slowly.”

“With your eyes on me until the last breath left your lips.”

“And afterwards?”

Hannibal kisses his forehead, tugs his hair until he can press a kiss to his open mouth. Will presses into it, a helpless sound leaving him as Hannibal dominates his mouth, holding him close with a ferocity that seeps out into every corner of the room. Will’s breathless when they part.

“Let us keep one thing a surprise, my love. But trust me. I promise you, you’d find it beautiful.”

 

*

 

They rest a lot, lying together amid tangled sheets, the bedroom windows thrown open to allow the summer breeze to caress their skin. after breakfast, they walk down the narrow streets, sometimes arm-in-arm when nobody is around and Hannibal initiates it. Other times, Will walks with Hannibal’s hand resting lightly on his lower back, a gentle guide as they walk beneath flowered archways and past small art galleries and boutiques selling hand-blown glass items. The same style of handmade, coloured glass that Hannibal now keeps in his kitchen, and Will gets it now. Little souvenirs of their new home, more important than the pomp and circumstance of his old decor. Will prefers the airy kitchen of their new home, the herbs that hang from the ceiling along with garlic cloves, the dishes made of dark clay and the thick-stemmed wine glasses. The wooden window frames that he plans to paint, the iron railings that wrap around the balcony that need scrubbing with a wire brush and repainting in a fresh, pale colour. The terracotta tiles in the kitchen. The soft, cool bedsheets that are the most familiar items in the entire apartment: the same brand and thread count that Hannibal had in Baltimore. Will hasn't gotten around to asking him where the hell he purchased them in this backward, isolated, beautiful little spot. Cannes, perhaps. Marseilles. The kind of stylish, chic city that Will could go his entire life without seeing. The kind he's sure Hannibal will drag him along to one of these days.

They also have a lot of sex. Morning and evening, and sometimes in the lazy heat of the afternoon, and those times are Will’s favourites.

One day, a few weeks into his time in France, he's woken from a pleasant doze to the sensation of Hannibal’s fingers rubbing in gentle circles over his entrance. He's on his side, facing the window, eyes half closed, and he stretches like a cat, encouraging. Those fingers still, then move again and he exhales in relaxed pleasure. They've already had sex twice since sunrise, and Will’s body accepts the intrusion of two fingers easily. He's still wet from Hannibal’s come, and the stretch feels good. He pushes back onto Hannibal’s hand, his cock thickening against his thigh. Hannibal moves in close behind him and kisses his neck.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. Again. _Ah_ , that's good.”

He arches back against Hannibal, the delicious circling of his prostate making his eyes fall closed and his lips part. Hannibal’s fingers move deeper, spread, stretching him, and a groan spills from Will’s lips. He'd forgotten just how much Hannibal enjoys fingering him, how he can draw it out for what feels like hours, keep Will shaking on the edge of orgasm and crying out as it crashes down upon him. This feels no different: slow, steady, erotic, and he wants it to last.

Hannibal kisses his neck and Will presses his face into the pillows to muffle the weak sounds that escape him with each inward push. It won't take long for him to come. He's already hard and aching, had awoken that way, so Hannibal had likely been playing with his ass for a while before he began to stir. Hannibal grazes that perfect spot inside him and Will moans, long and low and deep, so he does it again. Then again. The fingers withdraw then press into him again, three this time, and the stretch is so delicious that Will shivers and pushes his whole body back against Hannibal.

“Fuck. Make me come.”

“Desperate this morning, aren't you?”

Hannibal’s other arm slides beneath his shoulders, elbow crooning and hand coming up to push Will’s hair back off his forehead and hold him just there, tightly against him, rocking his hips desperately. The sheets have been kicked away and it's just them, naked and slick with sweat in the summer heat, bodies entwined, Hannibal pushing Will rapidly towards his third climax of the morning. Hot kisses press to his throat and jawline, and he parts his legs as much as he can, reaching down to cup himself, not stroking just yet. He wants this to last just a little longer.

Hannibal’s fingers spread, stretching him impossibly wide, and he pants hard into the hot, sticky air. Then sharp teeth meet the muscle between his neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise, and Will comes with a low cry, his own hand tightening around himself as he spurts weakly, tightening almost painfully on Hannibal’s hand.

It takes him a while to come back to himself, and when he does he feels Hannibal’s thumb gently tracing his entrance, soothing the skin there which is sure to be red and puffy, and feels tender from their morning antics. He rests his head back against Hannibal’s collarbone, still catching his breath, and thinks about how they definitely need a shower sometime soon. The air in the bedroom is ripe with the mingled scents of sex and sweat.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal combs lazily through Will’s hair, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone.

“Satisfied. Do you want me to…”

“No. Giving you pleasure is more than enough for me. You have already tired an old man out enough for one morning.”

“You're not so old.”

Will turns over onto his stomach, dislodging Hannibal’s hand and grimacing at how sticky he feels. The sheets will certainly need changing when they get up. He appraises Hannibal, takes in the few new streaks of grey in his hair, the deepened line between his brow, the small hints of tension at the corners of his mouth which never seem to fade even in sleep. Hannibal does look older, just a little. But then, he supposes so does he.

They lie quietly for a while, tracing patterns into each other's skin, Will languishing in the morning heat while Hannibal simply tolerates it. Soon, the silence becomes too much and Will’s thoughts begin to wind themselves up, too near to the surface for him to stay quiet.

“Do you ever want to go back?” He murmurs into Hannibal’s skin. They're both in need of a shower. He imagines he smells pretty ripe to Hannibal’s sensitive nose, but privately he loves the smell of them together. It brings back memories he loves to linger on.

“To Baltimore?” Slender fingers are drawing circles on his shoulder.

“No.” Will is silent for a breath or two. He thinks of the fantasies that have been plaguing him of late. Of cold winters and fur hats, of vodka and sprawling forests. “Lithuania.”

The mood darkens instantly. It's as though someone has thrown a blanket over the sun. Will even twists his neck to look out of the window, but the afternoon is as dazzling as ever. Just Hannibal then, and the endless ways he can affect Will’s world without speech or movement.

“I can never go back,” Hannibal says after a long, pregnant silence.

“That isn't what I asked you.”

The fingers on his shoulder dig in abruptly and Will stiffens, pained. Fingernails all but break his skin. “Yet it is the answer you are getting. Do not press me, Will. Not today.”

“But why-”

“Will.” Hannibal dislodges him and sits up, turning his back and bringing the conversation to an abrupt end. “Do not press me.”

He stands, and Will finds he can't look away from the circular brand that permanently marks Hannibal’s fair skin. An apology comes to his lips but he swallows it down, unhappy at being shut down. Later, he tells himself. He’ll ask again later, when the evening is drawing in and they're both relaxed over dinner and wine.

In the bathroom they shower together, under the guise of conserving hot water. Hannibal remains stonily silent but he cleanses Will’s skin with a gentle tenderness, his hands moving slowly, deliberately, massaging knots out of his shoulders and winding up into his hair to gently rub shampoo into it. Will tips his head back and allows Hannibal to rinse it clean, the air permeates with the smell of their now-shared body wash and conditioner. He turns in Hannibal’s embrace and wraps his arms around his waist. The water cascades down upon both of them, cooling now, and Hannibal’s hands trail up his spine until they're both holding each other, a ghostly mimic of their cliffside embrace.

Will’s fingers trail down Hannibal’s spine to stroke across the brand, old now and fully healed. Off-centre and smudged, which must annoy Hannibal to the point of fury. It's a good job that Mason Verger is cold and dead, long digested and expelled, or else its highly likely Hannibal would hunt him down just for the inaccuracy of his man-servant. He nudges until Hannibal reluctantly turns, then traces the circle with a wet fingertip.

“I want one of these.” The words come out unbidden, quiet, and Will’s fingers still with shock at what he's just said. He didn't realise he was even thinking it at that moment. His shoulders tense as Hannibal goes still and says nothing for a long moment. The water cools, clinging to Will’s lashes in sparkling droplets.

“You do not.” It's calm, controlled, hiding something. Something Will may probably never know. “It would hurt you. Deeply. I wouldn't wish to see that.”

Will declines to say that Hannibal has hurt him, many, many times in the past. Physically, emotionally, psychologically, in all the ways a person can be hurt. Instead he leans in and kisses the brand. The skin feels twisted and warped beneath his lips.

“You could brand me. Give me something to always carry with me, something permanent.”

Hannibal turns then, presses Will back into the cool tiled wall, and brings a hand up to push his wet curls out of his face, exposing the scar on his forehead. His eyes linger on it. Then wet fingers trace the slash across his stomach, right below his navel, and Will has a chilling memory of what his guts felt like as they spilled into his own hands.

“Have I not done that already?” Hannibal asks him and Will shakes his head.

“Not the same.” He doesn't elaborate and, thankfully, Hannibal doesn't ask. He doesn't think he could put into words what he wants. Hannibal’s mark on him, given freely and accepted willingly. Not forced upon him in a moment of planned and calculated rage or cold countenance. Given in love. Received with thanks. He shivers a little in Hannibal’s arms and soon the water is shut off and they're sitting naked on their balcony, skin warming and drying in the sunshine.

They're not overlooked by anyone, though they overlook plenty. It's fortunate really, since Hannibal had pinned him to the railing in the dead of night mere hours earlier, held his hands tightly at the base of his spine, and knelt behind him, using only his mouth and tongue to bring Will to orgasm as the night air swathed them both in what felt like total solitude. The lights of the village had sparkled below them, the sound of a guitar playing late into the night, and Will had writhed and panted and come feeling as though he had both an audience and was the only man awake in the world.

Now, he closes his eyes and relaxes, feeling the sun start to tan his pale skin and wonders when, or if, he and Hannibal will talk about their lives both together and apart. If they really need to at all. It's as though they've never been parted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delay with this chapter. For those who may not know, I’m six months pregnant and finding it a little rough, so updates may be a little sporadic. Thanks for sticking with me :)

Later, when it isn't quite so hot, they dress and head down to the market in the village square. Will only has a small bag of clothes with him and, despite Hannibal’s insistence that they go shopping one day soon, has managed to keep hold of his battered jeans and plain t-shirts so far. It's too hot for his favoured plaid shirts or turtlenecks, and he feels oddly off-kilter at having his arms so exposed in public. He's used to hiding himself away amid layers and misery, but the weather permits neither. 

Hannibal is elegant as always in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up just so, and pale tan pants that hug his hips and thighs in ways that should probably be illegal in some way. He doesn't look as hot and bothered as Will feels - in fact he looks entirely unaffected by the heat, and Will can only hope he acclimatises as well. 

They talk about nothing much as they walk together, Hannibal’s hand resting lightly on the small of Will’s back. It's a gentle touch, yet utterly possessive and gives Will a small thrill every time they pass someone who looks at where their bodies touch and gives them a bland smile. They could never walk like this in Baltimore, close like lovers, even before everything happened. Will didn't know back then, that he was falling in love with the therapist who had manipulated him so perfectly, and it would have frightened him to death had he had that particular realisation. The darkness within him then had been coiled and dormant, waiting, but now loving Hannibal seems as simple as breathing, as logical as night following day. He can't imagine not feeling this way, not feeling a rush of lust, power and desire every time he looks at Hannibal, or feeling safe and cared for when they lie entwined at night. 

For who could hope to hurt Will, hurt either of them, when they are the true monsters in the fairytale?

It's hotter today than before, and Will considers suggesting a shopping trip himself if only to gain more comfort from his clothing. The synthetic, cheap fabric of his t-shirt clings uncomfortably and his hair curls damp and sweaty at the nape of his neck. He's heard about the nearby cities from Hannibal, has Googled then on their tablet, and they look busy and bustling and expensive - places he usually swears to hide away from. But that was back in Baltimore. He idly wonders, as they step under an archway adorned with vines and pink flowers, if he could enjoy that experience here. Immerse himself in a city that he doesn't know, that doesn't know him, where he and Hannibal can be unapologeticallythemselves without fear of judgement, discovery, or worse. Perhaps. 

Hannibal takes his arm, guiding them towards a little market stall and he takes in the sight for a moment. Everything feels so quaint here, so homely and humble, and the little village market is no exception. Stalls offer food and drink, local grafts, glassware, second-hand books, and he gives in to the pull of the bookseller for a long while before pocketing a small language book and a guide to the local area, both lovingly dog-eared. Then he returns to Hannibal’s side. 

Will carries the wicker basket at Hannibal’s request, following him around as a variety of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, olives and tapenades are placed into it. Soon it weighs heavy on his arm and sweat is collecting under his arms and down his spine, but Hannibal seems totally unaffected by the heat. Just as he'd seemed unaffected by the chill of winter back home. 

“What was it like there?” The words escape, unbidden, and he regrets them as soon as Hannibal’s eyes flash up to meet him. Figuring he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, he pushes on with the rest of his question, in case it wasn't already clear. “In Lithuania. The weather. Was it warm like this in summer?” 

He wipes his brow with the back of his arm, a faux-casual gesture to try and remove some of the tension seeping into the space between them. People move around them, past them, reaching for peppers and apples and wheels of goat’s cheese, but Hannibal is looking at him as though he's the only person for a thousand-mile radius. 

“Was I not clear this morning?” His tone is light, conversational, but something behind his eyes hints at danger should Will continue to push this particular line of enquiry. “This is a subject I have no desire to discuss, Will. Please leave it alone. You may go to the next street if you wish, to the patisserie, and choose some bread. You are clearly in need of some entertainment.” 

He turns away to examine some cured meat and a spark of irritation lances through Will. 

“Why won't you talk to me about it? It's your home, Hannibal. I just want to know.”

“It is not a topic I'm comfortable discussing without giving it some thought first.”

“Then think about it. Because I want to know.” He catches Hannibal’s arm, forces their gazes to meet. He tries for softness in his voice, compassion. Tries to keep the curiosity at bay. The more Hannibal denies him, the more he wants to know. “I want to know you. All there is to know. I want to know about…” Mischa. He tries and fails to say her name, something within him warning him that it may be a step too far. He can ask later, when they're alone, when Hannibal can make as much of a scene as he wishes, get as angry and volatile as he likes without drawing attention to them. Whatever he dishes out in fury, Will can take it. There isn't much worse Hannibal can do to him that he's already done. 

“You already know me, in ways no other has. In ways no other has been permitted to. Why must you know this, too? There are some aspects of the past that should stay buried.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Hannibal’s eyes burn for a fraction of a second. “Because I wish them to.”

“But-” 

“But nothing.” Hannibal turns away, a sourness twisting his lips and he pulls the basket from Will’s grasp in one fluid motion. A spike of wicker stabs Will’s finger, blood blossoming in its wake, and he lifts it automatically to his mouth to suck, now lost for words. “Go to the bakery. Fetch whatever you like, but make sure baguettes and croissants are among whatever you bring back.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small roll of notes, passing them to Will without meeting his eyes - but his gaze lingers on the teardrop of blood as Will takes the money. It might be imagination only, but Will swears Hannibal’s eyes dilate a little at the sight of it. 

Angry himself at the dismissal, he turns on his heel and stalks away, shirt sticking to his back and beads of sweat trickling down his temples. He accidentally knocks into someone as he walks, murmuring an apology and continuing down the street towards the patisserie, wondering how their afternoon had taken such a turn. After everything Hannibal has put him through, after everything he's put himself through to get here, he doesn't feel that a simple question should garner him such an icy response.

He stands, seething, outside the patisserie as he gazes blindly at the rows of éclairs, mille-feuille and macarons. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet, sugary treats, and the queue inside snakes around in a bend then out of the door and down the steps. He sighs, casting a baleful look back towards the market. Perhaps he should let this go. 

After all, they have the rest of their lives together. Hannibal can't keep his childhood hidden forever. 

 

*

 

On the edge of the market, small wrought-iron tables litter the street, serviced by the nearby restaurant who bring coffee, cold drinks and snacks in a seemingly constant supply to anyone who requires them. At one such table, a young man sinks down onto a chair and signals the waitress, requesting an Aperol with soda in near-perfect French. The waitress gives him a smile, welcoming and familiar, and when she brings his bill with the drink he tips her generously. 

Then he sits and watches. 

They've parted ways for the moment, the younger, darker one heading up the street with a frown on his face, lost in his own thoughts. They'd met briefly, abruptly, shoulders colliding, and his quiet apology had been sufficient enough to grasp what his voice would sound like when speaking normally. He walks with shoulders hunched, hands in his jeans pockets - jeans, of all things; has he learned nothing? And he stood outside the patisserie for a little too long, looking at the window display but seeming to see nothing at all. Bored, the young man turns away, pushing his sunglasses further up on his nose and sipping his drink, his attention turning to the other man, the one he truly came here to see. He reaches into his messenger bag to pull out a notepad and a pen and, finally resting his gaze on his target, begins to write. 

Hannibal Lecter is the picture of grace and poise as he makes his way from one stall to the next. People naturally move out of his way without being conscious of doing so, and the stall owners seem enamoured with every question or comment he directs their way. The sun shines dappled through the canopies over the market, accentuating his natural tan where his forearms and throat are exposed, and it highlights the lines on his face as he frowns down at a clearly questionable orange. He's beautiful in his own way, captivating, and the pen moved rapidly over the paper as the words flow with the ease of water from a broken dam. 

One day, and one day soon, he’ll be able to do more than simply watch him from afar. He casts a dismissive glance up the street; the dark-haired, bespectacled guy is still frowning at the window of the little bakery. 

Once he's dealt with, his plans for Hannibal Lecter will all begin to fall smoothly into place. 

 

*

 

Dinner is a quiet, tense affair. Roasted artichokes, guinea fowl with truffle butter and herbs grown on their own balcony, fondant potato with the perfect amount of cream. Dessert is a sweet wine, nothing more. 

Then, later, the sex is fierce and passionate, with scratches left on Hannibal’s forearms and the indent of teeth marking Will’s shoulder. One of them bleeds a little, droplets standing out starkly on the white sheets. 

It starts in the kitchen, with Will pressed against the wall with no idea how he got there. His palms slide hot against the peeling paintwork, jeans only just pulled low enough for Hannibal to push into him, to take him roughly and pin him to the wall with the sheer force of his body. The prep was minimal, two of Hannibal’s fingers twisting inside him, slick with olive oil, circling his prostate to make him gasp and press desperately back for more. 

Then later, in the bedroom, it continues. 

Bent over, on his hands and knees, Will pants as Hannibal takes him so roughly that he loses his breath and tears spring to his eyes. There's a bend to his spine, Hannibal’s hand pressing into his lower back and forcing it into a deep curve, and sweat drips from Will’s hips, collarbone and nipples to dampen the sheets below. It hurts, but it feels incredible, the lines of pleasure and pain blurring together to create a heady experience that leaves him dazed and lightheaded when he finally comes with a desperate, pleading cry. His orgasm goes on and on, he keeps coming as Hannibal refuses to let up, fucking him through it, forcing waves of pleasure to cascade down upon him until it's over and he gasps with blessed relief. 

His arms give out then, shoulders meeting the bed, but Hannibal holds his hips tightly, keeping him on his knees, and continues to fuck him for a lot, lot longer until Will is whimpering, seeing stars, pressing back weakly to try and push him away, to escape the onslaught of sensation. There are marks on his throat, he's sure, left by Hannibal’s hand and mouth. He’ll wear them for days, won't be able to hide them from prying eyes of strangers. Hannibal presses deeper, harder, and he groans, spine arching, breathless at the intimacy and near-assault of it all. He loves being taken from behind, loves how base and raw and animalistic it feels, and tonight is even more extreme thanks to the anger coiling inside Hannibal; he gives himself over to it entirely, thighs shaking, vision darkening, lost in a haze of agonised pleasure. 

Afterwards, Hannibal showers alone then sits out on the balcony while Will lies in their bed, hot and aching and somehow still aroused in spite of his orgasm. He wants to do it all over again but Hannibal clearly wants - needs - space, and he can give him that. He reaches behind himself, curious, feeling Hannibal’s release between his cheeks, and ends up giving into his arousal. He pictures Hannibal’s thick thighs, the muscles flexing as he gives it to Will hard, the smooth planes of his chest scattered with greying hair, the force behind those long, delicate fingers that can both soothe and crush him within the same breath. His need spurs him on as he slowly fingers himself, losing himself to the memory of Hannibal’s thick cock stretching him wide, his fingers smudging bruises onto his hips, the possessive growl when Hannibal came inside him. He comes quietly into his own palm, gasp of bliss muffled in the sheets while Hannibal stares out at the stars and doesn't move a muscle - although Will’s certain he must have heard him. 

He falls asleep quickly after that. Hannibal doesn't come to bed until the early hours of the morning, but when he does he holds Will for the rest of the night.

 


End file.
